


If Cinderella Was a Fella...

by pamdizzle



Series: Dreams of Lace and Satin [7]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bodily Fluids, Bottom Jim, Established Relationship, First Time Bottoming, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Romantic Gestures, Smut, Top Oswald Cobblepot, gobblepot, mild cross-dressing, this is a series about lingerie is it not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: Jim and Oz celebrate their one year anniversary as a couple. Jim's already got a gift and everything...but there's a few loose threads hanging in his peripheral, and Jim wouldn't be a detective if he didn't at leasttryto follow them.This starts off a lot like Jim in Season 1--innocent and sweet, but then it gets really dirty by the end.





	If Cinderella Was a Fella...

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings! I likely won't have another update until next week sometime. I have a temp job I gotta do this week as a favor. LOL 
> 
> Anyway, the results are in. I will be leaving the links to all references lingerie and other items of import within the text. <3

It’s starts out innocuously enough. Jim’s pouring his second cup of coffee, while Oswald sips his tea and the morning news provides an ambient soundtrack to their Wednesday morning. He’s debating on whether or not he feels like cream when he notices Oswald’s head snap to the TV screen. Jim follows his gaze, because if Oz finds it interesting, it probably spells some kind of trouble.

It’s surprising, then, to find that Oswald’s rapt attention is focused on runway shots from last night’s Met Gala in New York. Jim huffs a laugh before dropping a kiss against Oz’s temple.

“See any of your favorite celebrities?” Jim teases.

“Hmm? No,” Oswald answers distractedly. “It’s like an art-fashion show. Of course, eighty percent of these people are wearing Vuitton—it’s _accoutre_.”

Jim arches a brow. He knows Oswald has a nose for high fashion, happily donning suits that turn heads simply for their bold design. But suits aren’t the focus of this particular ‘best dressed’ news feature. Jim shrugs. He supposes it makes sense that Oswald’s appreciation of designer clothing would include all variations of formalwear. He probably knows the name of every color in the wheel, and how to pair them perfectly.

That thought makes Jim spare a glance at his own reflection. Oz has taken to helping Jim prepare in the morning—laying out his accessories while Jim throws on his suit—and, yup, he’s been hoodwinked.

“Is this your tie?”

Oswald glances at Jim from the corner of his eyes, smile twitching ever so slightly as he says, far too innocently, “Is it?”

Jim glares at him before huffing a chagrined sigh. “Is there something wrong with _my_ ties?”

“Of course not,” Oswald demurs. “A polyester cotton blend is perfectly acceptable for a police officer.”

Jim nods, is about to turn around and go find one of his own ties as a matter of principle when Oswald reaches out to lightly grasp Jim’s wrist. He drops his gaze to where Oswald is sat at the table, casually sipping his tea.

 Blue eyes stare up at him, sympathetic, as he says, “Unless that officer is also a Captain who will be rubbing elbows with the city’s upper echelon that day. In which case, perhaps a finer material might be more appropriate.”

 Oswald is referring to the luncheon Jim is obligated to attend this afternoon where he will be consulting with the mayor and a few select members of Gotham’s wealthy elite regarding an expansion of the GCPD’s community outreach programs. He has a point, but Jim is uncomfortable with the idea of pandering to begin with, let alone dressing up in a way that contradicts the overall purpose of the gathering. It feels disingenuous to try and garner support for programs that benefit Gotham’s needy while wearing a piece of fabric that costs more than most people’s electric bill.

As if reading Jim’s mind, Oswald squeezes his hand. “It’s not about showing how much you care, Jim. It’s about projecting an image to the people with the means to fund your goodwill that indicates you’re a worthy investment. No one wants to throw money into a black hole and, sadly, that is how the elite tend to view activists who don’t step to their level.”

Jim blows out a resigned breath, because Oswald is right. A few uncomfortable hours trying to impress a bunch of snobs is a small price to pay for a new community center and qualified staff to run its programs. At least Alfred will be there, representing Bruce’s interests. He figures if a butler from the inner city can play pretend with all those assholes, then so can he if it’s for the greater good.

Jim squeezes Oswald’s hand, a silent show of gratitude. “You’re right.”

“Don’t worry, Captain Gordon.” Oz smiles as he uses Jim’s grip to pull himself to his feet. “You’ll do just fine.”

His other hand comes up to cup Jim’s jaw as he brings their lips together with light pressure. It’s meant to be chaste, but Jim winds his arm around Oz’s back and deepens it. Oz groans against him, hands clutching at Jim’s shoulders in a noble effort to keep himself from messing up Jim’s hair. When they break apart, Oswald looks dazed, but satisfied.

“Love you,” Jim says, squeezing Oz a tad more firmly before letting go and grabbing up his keys.

Oswald’s quiet, bewildered “Love you too” follows him out the door.

***

 Their one-year anniversary is fast approaching, and Jim is satisfied with his gift selection. It’s a tie bar he picked up from the same store he’d found Oz’s ring and while Jim had expressed an interest right away, he’d regretfully asked if there was anything similar when he’d seen the price tag. He’s still trying to recover his savings from his last big purchase, after all.

Vinicio, the man who owns the store, had insisted however, giving Jim a stellar deal as a kind, though wholly unnecessary, thank-you for catching the men who robbed him. His wallet is still far lighter than he’d like as a result, and Jim doesn’t know what a genuine Cartier is, but Oz has a thing for vintage, and Jim knows he’ll appreciate how it compliments his ring. Besides, he figures, it’s a special occasion.

It’s when he’s trying to find a good hiding place that he stumbles across the magazines.

“Argh!” Jim ducks his head as he rained down upon by fluttering, unholy fury. “Fuck!”

When it’s finally over, and Jim can unfurl from his protective fetal position in the corner of the walk-in closet, he is stunned to discover every monthly issue of _Vogue_ , dating back at least four years, unwittingly knocked from their shelf in Jim’s bid to stash his gift.

He almost brushes the collection off as a remnant left over from the manor’s previous occupants, but then he notices the handwriting. Oswald’s familiar scrawl is set against the covers of various issues, strings of numbers in the top right corner. Curious, Jim picks up one of the volumes and tries to discern the meaning. He’s a detective, after all, it’s nearly impossible for him to turn down a mystery.

Is it some secret gangster code? Longitudes and latitudes? Jim shakes his head.

“I’m overthinking this,” he mumbles to himself as he flips the volume in his hands open to page 47, one of Oz’s numbers on the cover. “Bingo.”

The page is a full spread of a model in a long, red [Versace ballgown](https://www.tradesy.com/i/versace-red-new-crystal-embellished-silk-cady-gown-long-formal-dress-size-4-s/21242926/?utm_source=gpl&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=Shopping%20-%20Clothing%20-%20Product%20Type%20-%20FTB&utm_content=formal%20dresses&utm_term=&gclid=EAIaIQobChMI0tzg8uKy2wIVT7nACh3-vw2HEAQYBSABEgJd3vD_BwE) with a slit up the hem on the left side. Oz has drawn a little star next to the foot of the page and Jim furrows his brow. Intrigued, he begins flipping through the rest of the magazines with page numbers marked on the covers. There’s a sort of pattern to the designs, he realizes after a while.

All of the gowns are full-length, and while some of them combine vintage and modern, most of the ones Oz has starred are classical in nature. He’s missing something, Jim is sure, aside from the purpose of the magazines overall, that is. There’s something else about the dresses themselves, something he can’t quite put his finger on. His detective senses are tingling, but he’s interrupted from drawing any conclusions when he hears a throat clear behind him.

“What on earth are you doing?” Oswald asks, clearly amused by Jim’s half-buried predicament.

Jim blinks, noticing the elongated shadows cast about the room beyond the closet. “What time is it?”

“Well after seven, I’m afraid,” Oz supplies.

Jim grimaces. He was supposed to start dinner an hour ago, so they could eat together before Oz put in an appearance at the lounge. “Sorry. I got sidetracked by an avalanche.”

“Mother’s favorite publication,” Oswald says, gesturing at the pile. “She liked to go window shopping, in a manner of speaking. She could spend hours going on about what she considered classy. Made me mark her favorites.”

Jim stares at the issue he’s holding, it’s dated July of last year in big bold font, and Oswald’s smile loses some of its nostalgic happiness. He’s a bit cagey when he says, “Guess old habits die hard.”

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” Jim replies, honestly.

Oz shakes his head dismissively. “I know; it’s not your fault. I should probably find a better place to keep them stored.”

“She had good taste,” Jim remarks, stacking up the magazines neatly along the wall. “Must be where you got it from.”

“Charmer.” Oswald smiles, bashful, then adds, “You still owe me dinner, James.”

Jim stands when his mess is tidied, grateful his gift is already hidden, and wraps his arm around Oz’s shoulders as he guides him from the room. “How’d you like it if I whipped up some takeout?”

Oswald’s laugh is answer enough.

***

 It doesn’t click until he and Harvey are taking statements, trying to investigate the origins of a new street drug, down in Greektown a few days later. They’re leaning against their car, throwing back a couple gyros, while Jim compares notes. He’s seeing a few threads that might point them toward Chinatown when Harvey gives a snort and slaps his bicep to get his attention.

“Might wanna tell your lover boy over there he’s a little too old for prom night,” Harvey says, teasingly.

“What?” Confused, Jim follows his gaze and does a double take when he spots Oswald just across the street. He’s standing outside the storefront of a clothier that’s been there since before Jim was born, probably waiting for his driver, staring curiously at the window display. It’s an artful arrangement of formalwear, designed to entice teenage girls and their mothers inside for prom season fittings, but the centerpiece is a sparkly silver, one-shoulder evening [gown](https://www.farfetch.com/shopping/women/marchesa-notte-glitter-one-shoulder-gown-item-12204494.aspx?storeid=10185).

There’s no other frill, no tulle or lavish embroidery aside from its glittering fabric. Just a black band of some material Jim can’t discern from the distance tied into a simple, elegant bow at the waist. It reminds Jim of the elegantly simplistic dresses in Oz’s Vogues, and then it dawns on him. He lets his eyes drift back to Oswald, oblivious to his audience, and the look on his face can only be described as longing.

_Oh._

Harvey disrupts Jim’s epiphany with a guffaw. “He looks like he’s waiting for his fairy godmother to send him to the ball.”

Jim gives Harvey a flat look before slapping him upside the head. “Shuddup.”

Harvey grunts as he fixes his hat. “Jesus, Jim. I’m just fucking with you. He’s probably casing the place for God knows what.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “He’s not gonna rob a damn tailor.” He gestures to a sleek, black sedan as it pulls up to the curb.

“You’re not gonna go say hi before he’s chauffeured into the horizon?”

“You know I can’t.” Jim sighs. “C’mon, break’s over. I think I know where we’re headed next.”

As they climb into the car, however, an idea begins to take shape. Jim is intimately familiar with Oswald’s expressions and he knows he isn’t mistaken about what he’d seen. It’s just curious that Oz has a desire he hasn’t tried to act on, especially in this context. He tries not to take it personally as he considers the possibility that fear of Jim’s reaction is the reason Oswald is denying himself.

Some indignant part of himself insists that Oz should know him better. He’s helped select half of the man’s lingerie collection, for fuck’s sake. Hell, he’s bought him makeup and night gowns and tells him how pretty he looks while they’re fucking. Jim would never mock Oswald for wanting a damn dress. Par for the course, as far as Jim is concerned.

Hell, the idea in and of itself has him halfway to hot and bothered. Jim takes a quiet breath, lest he have to explain his sudden shift in mood to Harvey and tries to put it into perspective. Oz has alluded, more than once, to the bullying he often faced as a child and, as much as Jim tries to be supportive, a lifetime of ridicule and hurt isn’t something a single positive relationship can erase.

Especially when it comes to one’s sexuality. All too well, Jim remembers being picked on whenever he displayed even the tiniest inclination toward anything considered ‘feminine.’ There is an entire list of things he learned quickly, as a child, that he was not allowed to like: streamers on his bike, the color pink, nail polish, Little House on the Prairie, etc. Anytime he slipped up and confessed to liking something his childhood peers considered too girly, it was always, ‘Don’t be a queer, Jimmy,’ or ‘That’s for girls.’ He’d learned really quick how to stay his tongue, how to behave as was expected. If he found himself attracted to boys in middle school, he shoved it down and dismissed it, because it was just as easy for him to like girls, and safer by far.   

So, yeah, he gets it. However, next week is their anniversary, and while Jim knows Oswald will like what he’s already picked out, he sees an opportunity in this new discovery. Because Oz has given Jim something he can never repay just by letting Jim be himself. There’s been instances, after college and even in the Marines, where Jim’s been able to explore his sexuality, but never beyond the physical. Oswald allows Jim to learn himself in ways he’d never imagined possible in an environment that is absolutely safe.

Oz doesn’t judge him for anything, and Jim trusts him so implicitly in this that he often finds himself confessing things to Oz that he has trouble acknowledging to himself. Things that he’s repressed for so long that he’s wept for being rid of it, but Oz doesn’t question or mock; doesn’t hesitate to give Jim whatever he needs. So, if Jim can provide Oswald even half the confidence Oz has given him, then he’ll do whatever it takes. 

That’s why, after he’s left the station for the day, Jim finds himself standing in front of that very same dress, giving the seamstress Oswald’s exact measurements. He offers to pay extra if she can have it ready by next Friday.

***

He spends the next week preparing for their anniversary like a man possessed. Jim knows he’s going overboard, but he’s also well aware of Oz’s deep appreciation for grand gestures. Hell, Oswald gets excited over the smallest gestures—like Jim bringing him half-wilted flowers after work or handing him his cane when they part ways in the morning. It’s like he can’t believe Jim—or anyone—would go through any amount of trouble for him without having to first issue a death threat.

This is well above and beyond simple thoughtfulness, however. This is Jim taking an idea and running with it, starting with a lesser used area of Oz’s immaculate home. The first time Jim had stopped by with the intent of staying over, Oz had given him the grand tour. Jim had been prepared for multiple sitting rooms, abundant bedrooms and a bathroom in every hall. Sure, logically, he knew it wasn’t all studies and extra toilets but, for some reason, a ballroom never even crossed his mind.

At the time, Oswald had joked about taking Jim dancing. Now, however, Jim is planning to do just that. He spends hours clearing out clutter, the room having been designated as a storage area in recent years, completely ignored by the staff Oswald has in twice a week to keep the place tidy. He cleans away the dust, polishes the floor and the grand piano and climbs a ladder to change the burnt-out bulbs inside the chandeliers and wall sconces. Finally, he sets up a record player because there’s no one Jim trusts to play for them without divulging anything they may or may not see.

He does all of this in the hours between getting off work and Oz returning from the lounge in the late evenings. All it would take to ruin the surprise is Oswald deciding to venture into the ballroom, but there’s no reason to worry overmuch. Oz typically sleeps in until it’s time for him to attend his afternoon appointments and prefers to snuggle up with Jim in the parlor when they’re both home in the evening. So, Jim has made sure to stay over every night this week, commute be damned, just to be certain.

He picks up Oz’s dress Friday morning and hides it in his trunk until he gets home that evening. There is only a couple hours to set everything up before Oswald arrives, and Jim speeds through his own shower and ablutions. Once he’s finished, he lays Oz’s dress out on the bed alongside a pair of the man’s favorite black velvet [slippers](https://www.macys.com/shop/product/steve-madden-mens-laight-velvet-smoking-slipper?ID=4402465&pla_country=US&CAGPSPN=pla&CAWELAID=120156340014544320&CAAGID=17372810552&CATCI=aud-390063526042:pla-378057958066&CATARGETID=120156340018156283&cadevice=c&cm_mmc=Google_Mens_Shoes_PLA-_-Mens+Shoes_Steve+Madden+-+GS_Steve+Madden-_-60418545872-_-pg1878619_c_kclickid_f3892e52-6f5c-4c75-a14c-8762d0a38aef&trackingid=474x1878619&gclid=Cj0KCQjwxtPYBRD6ARIsAKs1XJ6BaKVhjKc_TrNMypem4fjV1ljR6TiOgsLMpIDqka8IZ1LChk9V1tkaAvsMEALw_wcB). He then writes out a little card that reads ‘Try Me On’ and smiles at his handiwork before checking once more that everything is in order.

Oz will be over the moon…

Or, Jim’s gonna be in the doghouse.

It’s too late to turn back now, he reasons, as he hears the heavy front door rattling shut to announce Oz’s arrival. He fetches the tie bar from its hiding place, shoves it into his pocket, before casually descending the stairs. Oswald is coming around the corner from the foyer, so Jim snags him by the waist.

He kisses Oz hello, then says, “Happy Anniversary, baby.”

He is gifted a genuine grin—teeth and all—as Oz replies, somewhat bashfully, “Happy anniversary, Jim.” He takes in Jim’s appearance and adds, “You clean up nicely, Detective.”

“I try.”

“That you do.” Oswald teases, then pats Jim’s chest affectionately as he withdraws from their embrace. “Let me wash up before dinner? I won’t be outdone by the likes of you.”

Jim smirks. “You do that. I’ll set the table.”

Oz eyes him suspiciously before he huffs and makes his way toward the stairs. Jim notices his limp isn’t so pronounced today, which is good. He doesn’t want to tax it too harshly by dancing when it’s already flaring up. Satisfied that things are going according to plan, Jim sets the table with Chinese takeout from Oz’s favorite hole in the wall downtown and waits.

Ten minutes pass by.

Then twenty.

Finally, after half an hour, Jim hikes up the stairs. Maybe Oz needs help with the zipper? When Jim makes it to the room, however, he sees the dress is no longer on the bed and the bathroom door is shut. He’s about to pretend he didn’t panic, and creep back downstairs, but then he hears it.

There’s a wet cough, followed by a sniff and Jim feels the bottom of his stomach drop out. Concerned, he approaches the bathroom.

“Oz?”

He hears some hurried shuffling behind the door and the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking into place.

_Shit._

“Hey,” Jim gently entreats, forehead pressed against the door. “Are you okay? What’s going on? Did I get the size wrong?”

There’s a beat of silence before Oswald replies, voice thick, “N-no, I…it fits perfectly.”

He sounds none too happy about it, however, which makes Jim nervous.

“Can I see?”

“I don’t know…”

Jim bites the inside of his lip. “If you don’t like it, I can take it back. It’s no problem.”

“You don’t get it. It’s not about whether or not I like it.” Oswald’s voice is frustrated, tone sharp in a way he rarely uses with Jim anymore as he adds, “I can’t wear this, Jim!”

Jim doesn’t know how to respond to that, tries not to take it personally. Oz is upset, clearly, and lashing out. Over what Jim thought would be the perfect gift…

Damn it.

He really doesn’t get it, though. It’s basically just a fancy night gown, and Oswald seems to like those well enough. “Why not?”

“Why do you want me to wear it, huh?” Oswald counters, defensive. “Do you miss women so much you have to dress me up like one? That’s sloppy, even for you, Jim Gordon!”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jim shouts, then immediately regrets taking the bait. Fuck, he walked right into that one. “You know what, don’t answer that. Goddamn it, Oswald, you know I love you. I just don’t understand…

“Why is it okay for me to buy you the other stuff and not this? I mean, if you don’t like it, fine, but I saw you staring at it. Me and Harvey were working in Greektown and you had this look on your face like—”

“Because it’s wrong! It’s all…wrong,” Oswald interjects on the tail end of another sob. “Why—why am I like this? I’m a _freak_!”

Jim’s heart lurches.

_Oh._

_Fuck._

Jim’s met his patience quota. Oswald has locked him out and usually Jim would respect that, but he can’t sit back and do nothing. It’s their anniversary and Oz should be downstairs enjoying their date, not up here hating himself in their bathroom. Resolved, he grips the doorknob, leans his weight back then swings himself into the door. It’s too old to withstand Jim’s blunt force attack, the catch ripping out of the doorjamb as it gives.

Oswald is staring at him, where he sits on the rim of the bathtub, puffy eyes wide and mouth dropped open. He’s wrapped up in his bathrobe, though Jim can see the bottoms of the silver dress poking out.

“You are _not_ a freak, Oswald,” Jim tells him from the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He wants to haul him up and into an embrace, but he’s already broken the damned door. He’ll let Oz meet him halfway or tell him to get out.

 “That door is an antique,” Oswald states primly, before averting his gaze as he wipes his face.

“I’ll fix it,” Jim promises. “After I fix whatever I broke here first,” he adds, gesturing between them.

Oz shakes his head, despondent. “I don’t think it’s something you can fix, Jim. It’s always been broken.”

Jim frowns. He doesn’t think Oz is talking about them, which means Jim has gone and stepped on a landmine. He takes a deep breath. “Can you at least explain it to me? Let me try.”

Oz swallows, hesitates as he fidgets with his thumbs, then says, “My mother loved me very much, Jim.”

Jim furrows his brow, not liking where this is headed. “I know she did.”

“She was a saint,” Oswald insists, but continues. “She used to play bridge on Sundays with the lady down the hall. She’d leave me to my own devices for a couple hours, but once…when I was eleven, I played dress up with one of her dresses and her shoes. I didn’t know it was wrong.”

Jim crosses the floor to kneel in front him, clenching his teeth hard to keep his mouth shut. He takes Oswald hands, squeezing them with gentle encouragement. Oz looks up at him then, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

“What happened when she found you?”

Oswald sniffs, bites his lip as if his next words are some kind of betrayal. Finally, he confesses, “She slapped me. Told me to take it off.” Oswald shrugs, wiping furiously at his eyes. “I know my lingerie is easily mistakable for women’s, but they at least were made to be worn by men.”

Jim sucks in a breath, then squares his shoulders because this conversation isn’t easy, but Oswald must have been excited about the dress, enough so that he’s wearing it now under his robe. Jim might be an idiot, but he’s a damn good detective and everything he’s learned so far says that Oz should be thrilled wearing that gown right now.

He takes a minute, chooses his words carefully, something that’s so much easier to do when it comes to lending comfort.

“Look, I have no doubts that your mother loved you, Oswald, and I would never argue that she wasn’t a good person. But that doesn’t mean she was right about everything.” Jim gathers up Oswald’s right hand, kisses the ring on his finger—something of a new habit he’s seemed to form over the past month and a half—and says, “But this dress in particular, I had them fit it to your exact measurements. So, if this is about whether or not it was made for a man, it was tailored to fit you specifically. And even if it weren’t, Oz, dresses aren’t just for girls.”

Oz opens his mouth, as if to argue, but Jim continues, “I know what people say. And I know what people think, but you go open any history book and you’ll find black and white photos of little boys standing right beside little girls, and they’ll both be wearing dresses.”

“Be that as it may,” Oswald says, “a bespoke suit is just as lovely. I have no need for dresses.”

“I love your suits too,” Jim replies, “and I would never suggest you do anything you’re uncomfortable with or ask you to wear something you don’t want to just for my sake.

“But I think you do want to wear it. And if that’s true, then I need you to understand that it’s okay. Even if it’s only here, at home.  

It doesn’t make you a freak. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with it.”

Oswald’s lips tremble as he leans forward to wrap his arms around Jim’s shoulders, burying his tears against his collar. “I really don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You’re not the only one with demons in their closet,” Jim says. “You’ve given me more than you know, which is why I went a little over board with the anniversary stuff, I guess. I never meant for any of this to upset you.”

“I do like it,” Oswald admits, shaking his head. “You couldn’t have known. I’ve never…it’s not something we talk about, is it?”

Jim sighs. “No, but maybe we should.”

Oz finally leans away, kisses Jim sweetly on the lips, and declares. “Yes, but not tonight. I want to finish our date.”

“I wish I could take you on a real da—”

“None of that,” Oswald interrupts with a finger against Jim’s lips. He then stands up and gives Jim a wry grin. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to zip me up, we can get on with it.”

Jim circles around behind Oz’s back, meeting his expectant gaze in the mirror.

“Close your eyes,” Oswald demands, “and no peeking.”

He does as he’s told, uses his hands to find the zipper when Oz lowers the robe. Jim gets a little revenge by placing a kiss at the back of Oz’s neck as he slowly drags up the zip. The little gasp he gets as a response has Jim going for the little spot behind his ear next, hands trailing down to Oz’s hips.

He gets a bony elbow in the solar plexus. “Go busy those wandering hands with something productive. Dinner’s probably gone cold, after all. Why don’t you go heat it up?”

***

Jim nearly drops his plate as he’s replacing it onto the table, when Oswald appears at the end of the dining room. He knows he’s staring, can feel his mouth drop open, but fuck, he doesn’t have the words. Oswald’s nightgowns have this way of blunting the man’s masculine edges. Their open, swooping necklines accentuate the narrow curve of his jaw, their dainty straps making his shoulders appear delicately vulnerable. It’s sexy in a sweet way.

This dress, on the other hand, does all the same things, but provocatively. It wraps over Oswald’s shoulder like a tease, hugs his chest like a glove to outline the narrow shape of his waist before it drops into a swooshing skirt at the hips that soften the overall look. Jim’s seen Oswald naked countless times by now, but the dress presents him in such a way that makes Jim want to discover his secrets all over again.

Oz doesn’t usually wear lipstick with his nightgowns either, but he’s got on a bright red tint that draws attention to his pale, avian face—Oz would hate that comparison, but birds are elegant, beautiful creatures—and bright blue eyes. He looks classy as hell, and Jim wants to fuck him up.

“Holy shit.”

Oz blushes, looks down shyly. “Is it…does it look alright?”

Jim gives a bodily start, plate clacking against the table as he attempts to recover his composure. He’s afraid if he goes over and kisses him the way he wants to, it’s going to end with them both on the table.

He pulls out Oz’s chair instead and gestures for him to come and have a seat as he answers, “You look amazing.”

They eat in mostly quiet companionship, while Jim sneaks furtive glances at Oswald over the rim of his wine glass. He starts feeling warm pretty quickly as a result, on his third glass before dessert, but he can’t help it. He wants to memorize every inch, and with each glance Jim notices another detail.

Oz didn’t style his hair into any of his usual variations of an up do. Instead, he’s left it all down, blow dried soft with his angled bangs brushed over his forehead toward his right eye. The rest is neatly combed and a little fuzzy where it’s short around the crown of his head. He didn’t bother with eyeliner either, and while the differences are subtle, aside from the dress, they create a [picture](http://dishonored.wikia.com/wiki/Robin_Lord_Taylor) that is wholly transformative. He looks younger and less guarded, someone you wouldn’t think twice about approaching to see if you could coax a smile out of ‘em.

Oz catches him staring and grins. “Something on my face, Detective?”

Jim throws back the last of his wine and leans forward. He raises his hand, gestures at the entirety of his own face and says, “Just…you know…your face.”

Oz snorts. “Terrible,” he says, examining the open wine bottles. “How much wine did you have?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jim deflects, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the small, wrapped box with the tie bar. “Here.”

“Two gifts, and a dinner?” Oswald says, exasperated. “You do realize…I’m easy, right?”

Jim cackles. “Just open it.”

Oz shakes his head. “Uh-uh. You first.” He then retrieves an envelope from the bodice of his gown and slides it across the table.

He eyes it curiously, before picking it up and flipping it open. Jim feels his own face light up, because he is a huge baseballs fan and…these are supposed to be almost impossible to acquire. He refuses to consider any lengths to which Oswald may have gone to do so.

“You got me season passes to the Knights1?”

Oz grins. “You like it?”

“I’m gonna get you something incredibly tacky from opening day to show you just how much.”

“Save your threats,” Oz replies, cheekily. He then turns his attention to his own present, breath leaving him in a rush when flips open the box and sees the [bar](https://www.ebay.com/i/282186094203?chn=ps). “Oh my…where did you even get this?”

He shrugs. “Same place I got the ring. I figured…it matches?”

Oz stares at him wide-eyed, blinking. “You have no idea what this is, do you? You had to have spent—”

 Jim holds up his hands, “Not a word. And no, I don’t know what it is, but you like it, right?”

In answer, Oz takes the tie bar out of its box and clasps it onto the shoulder of his gown. “Do I like it? Really, Jim. What on earth am I going to do with you?”

Jim stands, holding out a hand. “I have few ideas,” he says with a wink. “Come on. Let’s tango.”

“You are so drunk. which is the only reason I’m excusing your horrid double entendre.” Oz giggles as he takes Jim’s hand. Joke’s on him, because Jim is being mostly literal.

Still, Oz doesn’t catch on until Jim leads him past the stairs instead of up them. His head flies over his shoulder to glance back confusedly at the case as Jim leads them right past it, and off to the right. He shoots Jim a wary look as they progress down the hall until the open doors of the ballroom come into view and Oswald pauses, pulling Jim up short.

“What…”

Jim grins at his wide-eyed intrigue, gently tugging Oswald into the room. “S’a nice dress, baby. Figured we’d take it for a spin.”

“Jim,” Oz says, tone full of wonder as he spins slowly to take it all in. Then, “Is that record player sitting on my father’s grand piano?”

“It’s on a very soft towel,” Jim assures as he makes his way over to set up a record. “Not so much as a scuff, I promise.”

He sets down the needle and the first [song](https://www.vevo.com/watch/james-arthur/certain-things-\(audio\)/GB1101602037) on the album begins to play as he turns back to where Oz is smiling at him adoringly. Jim meets Oswald in the middle of the floor as the first words echo against the cathedral ceiling of the ballroom.

_There’s something about you,_

_It’s like you’re an addiction_

_Hit me with your best shot, honey..._

“This isn’t like any tango I remember,” Oswald teases as Jim pulls him close, hands resting comfortably on Oz’s waist. Oswald responds in kind, his arms twining loosely over Jim’s shoulder and they fall into a comfortable sway in the middle of the floor.

“I may have exaggerated my skills slightly,” Jim admits unapologetically.

_There’s certain things that I adore,_

_There’s certain things I ignore_

_But I’m certain that I’m yours_

_Certain that I’m yours…_

“I prefer this anyway,” Oswald replies, and Jim pulls him closer until there’s no more space between them. Oz leans into the embrace, his voice a whisper between them when he says, “Thank you for this, Jim. You didn’t have to go to such lengths.”

“I wanted to,” Jim insists, then sighs, uncomfortable as he thinks about how upset Oz had been earlier. “I just…wanted to make you happy.”

_There’s something about you_

_It’s when you get angry_

_Hold me, I saw mercy_

_And you're like a shoulder to turn to_

_If some things burn that's when we're hanging on for this life_

_We held on so tight…_

“Don’t you already know, silly?” Oswald’s hands slide back around to frame Jim’s jaw as he leans slightly back to look Jim in the eyes. “The overwhelming majority of my happiness is because of you, Jim.”

***

Jim won the battle of restraint in the dining room earlier, but he loses the war later that night when he’s got Oz pinned up against the wall outside their bedroom, the fabric of his dress pulled aside so he can suck a mark onto Oz’s shoulder.

Oswald himself is no more dignified, hand bunched up in Jim’s dress shirt and the other down the front of Jim’s pants, working his cock beneath the fabric. Jim groans when Oz sucks the lobe of his ear into his mouth and nips it just right.

“Fuck.” Jim wedges a hand between Oz’s back and the wall, pulls ineffectually at the zipper. He brings his other hand around, unthinkingly grips a handful of the fabric, and that’s when Oswald shoves him back.

“Don’t even think about it!” Oswald reprimands, then grabs Jim by his suit jacket and reverses their position. “If you rip this dress, Jim, so help me God…”

Jim’s back hits the wall hard enough to jostle the nearby pictures precariously on their hooks. He reaches out, grabs Oswald’s hips and lines them up so he can grind up against him. Oz slots their mouths together as he shoves both hands down Jim’s pants again and grabs two handfuls of his ass.

He fucks up Oz’s pretty hair, trying to pull him closer, though there’s already no space to be had. He angles away from the kiss and sucks a path down Oz’s throat instead when Oswald grinds them together just right. Each thrust makes the grip on Jim’s ass slip just a little, until he feels a fingertip ghost over his hole.

He flings his head back against the wall with a thud. “Oh, God, please.”

Oz hums, intrigued, as he pushes against Jim’s entrance with curious intent. Jim’s cock throbs in response, his stomach forming an ache as he pushes back to meet those questing fingers.

“What do you want, Jim?” Oz asks, voice shaking with this new, unspoken need between them.

Jim lifts his head from the wall, so he can meets Oswald’s eyes, and it’s like it’s six years ago and they’re back on that pier. It’s that same tension, that same intensity and those shock-blue eyes—desperate and wild. Its makes his stomach knot up with something like fight or flight. Except Jim doesn’t want to fight it, and he doesn’t want to run from it either. He just…

_Wants it._

It’s not an uncommon notion, but he hasn’t considered it with anyone since college. There’d been some fumbling with his roommate at the time, who thought spit was an acceptable lubricant. Being the novice he was back then, Jim had let him try it.

Big mistake.

He’s since only allowed anal sex if he’s the one giving, and he’s gotten pretty good at pleasuring himself with his own fingers. Besides, most of his partners have been women, and its rarely come up. Still, Oz is the first person he’s felt comfortable enough with to even consider it again. He’s just nervous.

Maybe.

A lot.

“Shit.”

Oz takes his hands away immediately, slides them up to rest on Jim’s hips, registering his hesitance. “Jim?”

“No, don’t stop,” Jim begs. 

It’s not just him being stubborn, though maybe that is part of it. The thing is, after all the shit they’ve been through together, the things they’ve done to each other, they’re under each other’s skin, and it’s only gotten more intense over the past year as they’ve grown closer. Sometimes, though, Jim still feels like he can’t get close enough.

He wants…

It sounds twisted, even in his own head, but he wants Oswald to crawl inside of him. Wants to be so entwined he can feel him moving beneath the surface. He wants to be invaded—and as possessive as Oswald can be about certain things, Jim wants to be fucking owned by him—and maybe that’s a little fucked up, but that train left the station _years ago_ , probably. 

“I want you to,” Jim finally says, decisively. “I just…”

He’s unsure how to explain his hesitancy without killing the mood.

Oswald’s eyes narrow, assessing. “I see.”

It’s a little disconcerting that Oswald can read him so well where others have failed. He has been informed, by friends and former lovers alike, that he’s emotionally unavailable on more than one occasion. ‘You should have said something, Jim, I can’t read your mind’ or, ‘Would it kill you to open up once in a while? I feel like I’m talking to a wall’ are among some of his greatest hits. So, while it’s liberating to be seen so clearly, it makes him wonder just what else Oz reads between the lines sometimes.

Oswald is tugging his hand now, pulling Jim off the wall and leading him into the bedroom. He stops just shy of the bed, leaning down to grab their supplies from the bedside drawer. He holds up the condoms, turning a questioning gaze onto Jim. They’ve been having sex for a year now, both of them have been tested, and Jim swallows thickly as he shakes his head. Oz likes it when Jim comes inside him, and that’s what Jim wants too.

Oz tosses them back into the drawer and lays the KY Jelly on the bed. He turns his back to Jim and says, “Unzip me, please, then get undressed.”

Jim’s too nervous to tease the way he did at the beginning of the evening, his fingers clumsy as he perfunctorily sees to the clasp. Oz turns around when Jim is finished, pressing a reassuring kiss to Jim’s lips before slipping into the bathroom. Probably, Oz is going to rehang his gown neatly, lest it get wrinkled, Jim thinks with a fond a huff. The little habit eases something in him, though.

Oswald takes care of his things, and he’ll be just as careful with Jim. He doesn’t need to worry about him being some impatient asshole only out for his own pleasure. Besides, Oz has never done this, and Jim wants to rock his world a little bit, wants to see his face when Oz is buried balls-deep in Jim’s body for the first time.

He strips out of his clothes, laying them over the back of an antique chair. Christ, their bedroom is like a studio apartment, with its own little sitting area and fireplace. The only thing missing is a kitchenette, though Oz did have a minifridge installed so neither of them have to venture downstairs for post-sex refreshments.

Jim chuckles. What is his life?

He shakes his head, dismissing the distracting thought, for that way lay madness, and climbs onto the bed. It’s only a minute later that Oz emerges from the bathroom. He’s wearing a black transparent [robe](https://xdress.com/collections/back-in-stock-mens-panties/products/chiffon-and-lace-robe?variant=36467068419) with lace trim that only covers down to mid-thigh where it meets up with the lacy patterned top of Oz’s [thigh-highs](https://xdress.com/collections/mens-socks-and-hosiery/products/thigh-high-lace-net-stockings?variant=44098380675). Jim can just barely make out the cut of his panties and garter belt through the chiffon fabric.

When Oz reaches the side of the bed where he’s laid out, Jim reaches over and cheekily pulls the belt to his robe, affording him a better look.

“Someone’s impatient,” Oz remarks with a smirk.

“Very.” Jim grins as he runs his fingers over the far too innocent ruffles of the [garter](https://xdress.com/collections/mens-bras-and-garter-belts/products/frilly-garter-belt?variant=28474775235) before slipping his thumb down to rub over the head of Oz’s cock where it’s sheathed in smooth black satin [panties](https://xdress.com/collections/mens-panties/products/the-smooth-satin-mini-panty?variant=37702060931).  

Oz sheds his robe before he climbs onto the bed, Jim parting his legs easily to make room for him between them. He runs his hands down Oz’s chest before gliding his palms around his hips, groans at the press of lace and satin against his naked sack as Oz nudges them together before swooping down to lick the sound right out of Jim’s mouth.

Jim remembers their first kiss, Oz’s stiff lips and clenched teeth and then, when Jim had finally gotten him to open up, little kitten licks and stuttered presses of lips. There’s none of that here now, a year later, as Oz completely dominates him, caressing Jim’s tongue with his own before he nips Jim’s bottom lip, then soothes it with a sultry lick before working his way down the column of Jim’s throat.

He’s all sensuous movements, grinding down softly against Jim as his hands and fingers lay waste to Jim’s favorite places with practiced ease. By the time Oz starts in on his nipples, lightly rolling one between his fingers while he sucks the other into his mouth, Jim is achingly hard and breathless with need. Then, suddenly, Oz’s other hand is right _there_ , fingers slick and prodding at the rim of Jim’s entrance.

“Fuck!” Jim’s hips stutter at the sensation, his cock leaking in anticipation. “Please, please, please…”

Oz hums, the sound vibrating against the already sensitive nub he has in his mouth and Jim’s hips buck in response. He has one hand buried in Oz’s hair, enjoying how soft it is without its usual product, and the other clutching madly at the bedding.

“Easy,” Oz soothes, releasing Jim’s nipple as he finally slides a finger just inside. Jim knows he isn’t supposed to tense, and he doesn’t. The intrusion is welcome, and he bears down, presses himself back toward it. The motion moves the questing digit in further, and Jim throws his head back and groans. Oz takes the hint, presses it in until the palm of his hand is flush against Jim’s perineum.

“Is that what you want?” Oz breathes the question against his ear, where he’s nibbling as he works Jim open so patiently, gently adding a second finger to join the first when he realizes Jim can take it.

Oz’s skin is so smooth under his hands as he mindlessly drags them back and forth over his back and arms. It feels so good, dragging against Jim’s own as they rock against each other. He’s panting, more than ready, when a third finger joins the first two and he spreads his legs wider in eager accommodation. He doesn’t care how needy he looks, how desperate.

Oz makes him feel wild, makes him want to lose control. The parts of himself he keeps hidden from everyone, soft or jagged, Jim wants to lay them bare between them. Let Oz’s own light and shadow fill the empty spaces of his fractured, conflicting self. He could never voice these things aloud—it’s a state of being rather than a describable feeling—but when he looks up to find Oz staring back at him, Jim knows he is _seen._

Eyes are the windows to the soul, or so the saying goes, but Oz’s are like doors to an entire universe. Where up is down and bad is good and Jim watches, open mouthed and gasping, as Oz throws those doors open. The gentle fire that usually burns between them is pitched to a roaring blaze, as Oz grabs a fistful off Jim’s hair, pulls it back to expose Jim’s neck so he can sink his teeth into his throat.

Jim’s hands fly to Oz’s hair, and his mouth finds the man’s shoulder, so he can add a mark of his own. They tussle, slightly, for some kind of dominance—exchanging bites and rough kisses until Oz withdraws his fingers carefully, but quickly before he grabs Jim by the biceps and rolls them both over.

He smirks at Jim’s dumbfounded confusion. “Fuck yourself on my cock, James,” Oz fairly purrs, voice full of silky darkness as he drags his panties down beneath his smooth sack, baring his uncut length to Jim’s hungry eyes. He then coats himself with KY and says, “Like a good boy does.”

Jim whimpers, because _fuck._ That’s a kink they still haven’t fully explored, but it makes Jim’s legs tremor and his stomach clench as he does as he’s told. He braces his hands over Oz’s thighs as Oswald grips himself in one hand and places the other on Jim’s hip to guide him slowly down. They both moan loudly at the initial breech, clenching their teeth in the effort it takes to hold themselves at bay until finally, Jim is fully seated.

He takes a minute to adjust to the feeling of being so intimately full, his breaths coming in uneven huffs. The stretch burns slightly, but it doesn’t hurt. Not like Jim had feared after that first botched attempt all those years ago. No, this is…

Oz is hard and thick, and Jim can feel the tremor of his restraint both under and inside him. He’s in so deep, Jim feels him in his gut and it makes him shiver, causing the barest movement that rubs against his prostate. Jim shivers with the contact, like a static shock. He forces himself to open his eyes from where he’s screwed them shut, lets them travel down to where they’re joined and Jim’s sack rests against the soft ruffles of Oz’s garter, his cock standing stiff, seeking friction in the open air. His attention is split when Oz’s hands clench against his hips, suddenly, pulling Jim forward just slightly.

“Oh!” Jim shouts, brokenly, because that’s _good_ —that’s really, _really_ good. “Fuck!”

Oz smirks, teasing, as he rolls his hips. “You really like it, don’t you?”

Jim thought Oz’s reaction would be a little less sure, looking to Jim to guide them through but he sees he’s definitely underestimated the man. Of course, it’s not like Oz hasn’t had sex—he’s fucked Jim’s face often enough—so Jim doesn’t know why he’d thought this would be so different.

Frankly, he’s relieved because Jim is the one in awe. He didn’t expect to like it this much, didn’t expect to be so shaken up about it. It’s just…intense, in more ways than one. He’s wanted this—not the act necessarily, but the proximity—for so long that he can feel emotion clogging his throat. He has to close his eyes again, unable to meet Oz’s knowing gaze any longer, feeling overexposed and far too vulnerable. 

Oz rolls his hips one more time as he runs hands back and forth over Jim’s thighs. “It’s alright, Jim,” Oz soothes. “Take what you need.”

Jim bites his bottom lip, furrows his brow as he nods. Slowly, he lifts himself up—not too far—then drops back down. It’s an unspeakably satisfying, perfect tension. He leans his head back against his shoulders, his mouth opening around a soundless cry as he does it again.

And again.

Oz’s hands smooth over his chest, his belly and thighs, always coming close but never touching where Jim wants it most, and least. Because the second Oz touches his cock, it will be over, and Jim wants this to last. He wants to stay lost in friction and heat, no sounds but his own punched out gasps as Oswald thrusts up to meet him and Jim loses himself to the rhythm and sensation.

He’s delirious with it, high on pleasure as he grinds himself down against Oz’s thighs. “Feels so good, baby,” Jim says, half out of it. Unable to stop himself.

“Open your eyes, Jim,” Oz begs, hands resting over Jim’s hips. “I wanna see you.”

Jim drops his head forward, opens his eyes to see the fire reflected in Oz’s own. He wants to throw himself into it, and feel it burn him to cinders. “Tell me.” Jim pants, too gone to be mortified by what comes out of his mouth next. “Tell me I’m your good boy.”

Oz’s mouth drops open, before he bites his lip against a groan. His hands clutch Jim’s hips, fingers pressing into his skin like blunt claws as he bends his knees, both heels digging into the bed as he drives up into Jim with force. He does it over, and over, eyes never once leaving Jim’s own.

“Such a good boy,” Oz finally says, voice strained and darkly possessive.

“Yeah,” Jim says, body lose as he literally rides Oz’s dick. “Give it to me…fuck me so good.”

“You take it so well. It’s like you were made for me, Jim.” Oz wraps his hand around Jim’s cock as he adds, “I wanna feel you come from the inside.”

It’s so wrong.

Jim comes anyway, and it’s _euphoric_ —riding the edge of too much. He’s frozen, muscles taut as Oswald fucks him through it, his hips rolling against Jim’s ass so his cock presses against his prostate until Jim’s out of his mind with it.

Maybe it’s the overstimulation…maybe it’s Jim’s own madness, but instead of lethargy, Jim hears the blood rushing in his ears like an electric pulse. He’s coming down from his orgasm, but Oz is still moving inside him, chasing his own climax, and every drag of his cock against Jim’s innervated flesh is like gasoline on a forest fire—it’s too much.

It’s never going to be enough _._

Oswald’s eyes are alight with that same bright madness that always draws Jim in, makes him respond in kind. Jim can’t explain what possesses him to do it, as he swipes a hand through his own mess, brings it up to Oswald’s face and smears it over his lips, his chin, his neck.

Oswald opens his mouth on a wordless cry, hips working frantically before he tenses up and empties himself inside. Jim scoops up the rest his mess from Oz’s belly, licks it into his own mouth and leans forward to seal their lips together, so he can push it over Oswald’s tongue.

They crash together then, teeth clashing as Oswald chases Jim’s intrusion. Neither of them care, too busy frantically clawing at one another, trying to get closer. Trying to get _in_. They have to break for air eventually, heaving for breath as they finally collapse in a heap. Oswald is soft inside of him when they do, and Jim feels him slip out with an embarrassing, mournful whine. He is closer and closer to his normal level of awareness, and he feels humiliation welling up somewhere inside him, but he doesn’t want to be empty yet.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Oswald shushes him, nudges him up so that Jim is still draped over him but with his head now resting beside Oz’s own on their mountain of pillows. He thinks for a moment, that he should try to assume a more dignified position than with his legs spread around Oz’s torso, but then there’s fingers pressing around his hole again as Oz plugs him back up.

Jim whimpers, hips rutting though he is utterly spent, confused at his reaction but ultimately relieved to be full again.

Oswald turns his head to meet Jim’s wary gaze and sighs, kisses him gently as he says, “Don’t over think it, Jim.”

He can feel his cheeks flaring, his eyes welling as he buries his face in Oz’s neck. But he takes his suggestion all the same, lets himself relax as he revels in the sensation. It’s some time later when he remembers.

“Oh God…” Jim groans, then cackles. “I rubbed come in your face.”

Oz giggles, replies, “You are a dirty, dirty man.”

“I’m sorry,” he tries to reply somberly.

“And a terrible liar,” Oswald returns. He pulls away, so he can make Jim clearly aware of his sins, crusted in Oz’s eyebrows for fuck’s sake. “I wasn’t going to complain. But I think it’s only fair you assist with the cleanup.”

Jim kisses him gently. “You got it.”

“Now?” Oz asks, with a minute wiggle of his fingers, where they’re still comfortably lodged in Jim’s backside.

Jim feels his face heat, but there’s no humiliation in it. “Yeah,” he says, grunting slightly as Oz extracts them carefully.

Surely, it isn’t normal to feel so loved over such a gesture, he thinks as he follows Oz to the shower, but that’s the thing about Oswald. He takes normal and makes it obsolete, so that Jim can’t imagine being satisfied with normal ever again. It isn’t weird, he decides.

It’s extraordinary. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1: Gotham’s writers have a habit of creating baseball teams flippantly and without checking to see if anyone else has ever done so in the past. I was surprised to learn that there are a ton of teams associated with Gotham, each of them only appearing once, never to be heard of again. I chose the Knights. I thought that was the most obvious and had the better ring to it lol
> 
> If you enjoyed this installment, please let me know in a comment or with a kudo, or BOTH! Both is good too! <3 <3 Thanks to everyone who's been supportive so far. I'm having a blast with ya'll on tumblr and reading your often time hilarious commentary. You give me life.


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